She was trying to trust him, but she felt his reluctance to trust her. He didn’t trust her to remain calm. Didn’t trust her not to get angry, not to get emotional, not to show the court her defiance. He didn’t trust that she would not be tripped and tricked into revealing that the stories about her—the men, the drinking, the sex—were true.
So he thought it was best that she sit quietly with her eyes downcast and her lips pressed together behind a white lace handkerchief.
When they were done talking, he began to pack up his papers. But he spent so long shuffling and stacking them to make the edges neat that she knew he had something else to say, so she folded her hands and waited. And eventually his eyes rose to meet hers and he closed his briefcase and cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Malone. We need to talk about your appearance.”
His voice was gentle. He was trying to be kind.
Ruth looked at his expensive suit, at his neatly pressed shirt. Smelled his woody cologne and wondered if his wife bought him a bottle for Christmas every year. She imagined the wife: ironing his shirts, sponging his tie, starching his collars. She imagined neat gray hair, a light dusting of face powder, fresh pink blouses, a discreet string of pearls. The smells of clean laundry, of lavender skin cream.
“I’m sorry to be so personal. But it is relevant. The more conservative you appear, the more chance you have of appealing to the jury. The prosecution will do their best to make sure the jurors are as conventional as possible.”
She thought: he is doing his job the best way he knows how.
But every word he spoke was a judgment on how she looked. On every blemish, every pore, every line.
“Perhaps if you just toned down the color of your hair a little? Or wore a more subdued style? And perhaps dressed a little more modestly?”
His words were like fishhooks, ripping into her skin, showing the soft and vulnerable underpart of her. The part that was weak. Ugly. Wrong.
She scrabbled for the scent of lavender again but all she could smell was sweat, bleach, old food. The stink of fear and despair.
A month later, Scott arranged a meeting at his office for Ruth and Salcito. She dressed carefully in a neat pink suit, low heels, her hair freshly washed and set, and she drove downtown, her face pale from lack of sleep.
She still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. Scott had talked to her, told her that she had to be seen to be with Frank, that their marriage had to appear solid—but she couldn’t help feeling the pity of what she was about to do. This seemed cold.
Although she was early, Johnny was there already, talking to Scott in the lobby. He was leaning unsteadily against the wall, his voice slurred. He looked like he hadn’t been to bed.
Scott offered them coffee and when they declined, gestured toward his office, said he would leave them to it.
Ruth walked in and sat in one of the high-backed chairs that faced the desk. She crossed her legs, folded her hands, took a breath. But it was useless: as soon as Scott had closed the door on them, Johnny was on the floor at her feet, embracing her legs, crying, telling her he loved her, how much he’d missed her. She fought down irritation, frustration, pity, raised him up and sat him in a chair, let him hold her hand. Tried for a brisk but serious tone.
“I’m sorry, Johnny, but I won’t be able to see you for a while. Mr. Scott says it wouldn’t look right before the trial.”
“What about after the trial?”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Once you’re free, we can get back to how things were, huh, baby? Maybe take a trip, whaddya say?”
“I don’t know, Johnny. I can’t think about that right now.”
She held his hand tight, squeezing as she spoke, but she could hear the desperation in his voice. His eyes filled with tears.
“Ruth. Ruthie. Please. I love you. You know I love you. I want to marry you, baby. We could have more kids. Together. I could give you more kids. I love you, baby. Please.”
She held tight to his hand, watched his face as he cried, marveled at the disgust that rose in her: this was a man she’d admired once. She tried to shush him, to tell him that everything would be okay, but he kept shaking his head.
“Not without you, baby. Nothing’s okay without you. I need you, baby . . . please. Say you need me too. The way you used to. You told me that you needed me to make you feel good . . . that no one else could make you feel the way I did. We can have that again, baby . . .”
As he spoke, he sank to the floor again, began to run his hands up her legs, over her thighs. She pushed them down, pushed her skirt down, tried to take hold of his hands, but he kept moving them back, sliding them higher.
“This isn’t . . . it’s not you, Ruthie. I know you. It’s Frank or this lawyer, this Scott, they’re making you do this. But you want me, you want me as much as I want you . . .”
“Johnny, this isn’t helping either of us. Please try to understand. This is for the best. The trial’s coming up and . . .”
“Fuck the trial. This is about me and you. When the trial’s over, what then? What then?”